


Tears in Starfall

by Angrish (LettuceBean)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Lesson 16 (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) Spoilers, Light Angst, Multi, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28515342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettuceBean/pseuds/Angrish
Summary: Stars rise and fall, and so will he. Except he can’t remember a time he had done anything but fall.Belphegor, the caged demon who hates, lies, and breaks much more than mere promises.In contrast, you do not trick him. Nor are you capable of lying. And that’s fine because it’s only the truth that hurts him the most.An abridged synopsis of a demon who would take everything back just to mess it all up again, but then he’d have the chance to change what counted. Instead, he watches as the human who could’ve given him more than redemption finds fulfillment in the worst elsewhere.
Relationships: Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58





	1. Lord of the Gap

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings to you my most respected fuckers  
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome.  
> I have yet to exorcise my sentiments for the Seventh-Born and the tags should explain the rest.  
> Trying a different writing style & character development.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction.”_  
>  ― Criss Jami

An exchange with humans.

Yes, because the last time one of his own took a fancy to such short-lived, stupid-minded creatures it was _so_ wonderful. How could Diavolo claim it wouldn’t cause harm when it was _because_ of a human that his brothers were here?

Shame on the prince for presenting it as the most ingenious concept he devised to usher the Devildom into ‘a new age’. But the real shame must be upon the shameless as his elder brothers give the program their full endorsement, with Lucifer personally persuading each of the Avatars with smooth speeches and smoother lies.

“Lucifer, at least tell him he has to reconsider! He’ll listen if it’s from you… please…” That’s all he can say to contain the brunt of his distress. His brother must know why, and for a moment, he seems to waver. “I’m begging you, Lucifer. I won’t ask for anything else ever again. Just this once… at least try. Try to persuade him! You can!”

Belphegor doesn’t see the pain that hits Lucifer’s chest, only a puppet eager to please Diavolo’s godawful ambitions. He wants to scream, but not yet, not yet. Has Lucifer truly forgotten amidst his bootlicking?

“What about Lilith?”

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

No! “It was because of the humans! Don’t you remember?”

He doesn’t. Insult to injury, Lucifer says the unthinkable—the unforgivable. Forget her? This snaps whatever tenuous control Belphegor has over his hatred and rage.

“Fine. Forget our sister if that helps you serve your dear master better. But I won’t! Just don’t get in my way while I wipe out those who stood by and did nothing as they watched Lilith fall! I’ll wipe out every last human… and Diavolo, too!”

He won’t.

“Don’t get in my way! I _won’t_ let this happen, you hear me?”

He will.

“Why would you do this, Lucifer…?! Is Diavolo more important to you and everything… even your brothers?”

He is.

“Let go! You can’t do anything for our family, but **I** can! _Lucifer!”_

He can’t.

Unlike humans of civilized societies, demons are not ashamed to use force against each other. Belphegor knows he cannot beat Lucifer even at his best and by the time he has his wits about him, he is alone. Lucifer wouldn’t let him be unless he is contained. Not after he had more or less declared insurgency.

The first night—is it night? The attic has no window and his D.D.D. is gone—he gnashes his teeth. As his fury mounts, he lashes out, demanding release by force even as he realizes how futile it is. When his energy gives out, he collapses, surrounded by broken magic and the misery he can only attribute to the wicked malice of humans that engineered this tragedy from the beginning.

He cannot even feel Beel, try as he might to reach out to him. Lucifer knows his curses too well. He despises his brother’s handiwork, Diavolo’s preposterous idea, and everything else that took away his sister. He tries desperately to dream of her, but she is clouded in mist and he always wakes up before reaching close enough to see her face.

Beel. Was he dreaming of her, too? Belphegor wishes to tell his brother it’s not his fault. But then he’d have to say _whose_ fault it is and he doesn’t want to delve into that, for the grave may be old but the wound is still fresh.

Time is measured by the meals delivered through the door. The opening Lucifer creates allows one-way transportation only, as Belphegor finds out when his blasting hex rebounds into his stomach and knocks the tray onto the floor.

“Belphie.”

“You might as well bring me the RAD newspaper, too. I can’t _wait_ to know what kind of human you’ve let invade here.”

“The first student is Solomon. He is an elite sorcerer, blessed by Michael and the—”

“Don’t bother,” Belphegor walks away and throws himself onto the bed. To him, Solomon is the epitome of everything he despises in humanity: arrogant, manipulative, vainglorious. That the wizard landed a pact with a brother of his does not endear him in the slightest. “I know who. Is stooping to pact with _him_ also part of the program?”

Lucifer shakes his head. Before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder: “Clean up the mess before you cut yourself on the glass.”

So Belphegor doesn’t. With cheeks blazing, he stomps the spilled food into the floor, twisting his foot to grind the stains deep. Only after a few days, when blood-stained glass shards lie amidst chunks of stale stew, he grabs the mop when he’s sure he doesn’t hear Lucifer coming up the stairs.

Sloth is sedentary but this is the longest time Belphegor has gone without seeing a face he doesn’t hate. Reading, which isn’t Belphegor’s forte to begin with, is a bore. Cards, chess, and dicing are tiresome when playing against himself. Sleep doesn’t come easily in the hope that against impossible odds, one of his brothers will discover him and give Lucifer the reckoning he deserves. A hope that, as days bleed into weeks to months, decays into a bitter taste.

The more Belphegor despises humans and their ways, the more he slips into their habits—reminiscing, wandering through memories of a brighter past where every happiness was taken for granted. There would always be circuses, performing the most dazzling tricks, just as there would always be Beel and Lilith by his side, as sure as the stars.

“We’ve selected the second exchange student from the human world.”

Oh, it just gets better and better. Why not just merge the two realms and be done with it? The very thought turns his stomach.

“This time, the student is a normal human.”

So a regular mortal, equipped with nothing to defend against the corrupting forces of the Devildom. He scoffs, thinking what a fool Diavolo is for flaunting such a vulnerable element in his grandiose plans. Then he begins to laugh. “What would your exalted leader think, Lucifer, if I nab that little human and tear it to pieces?”

Lucifer’s mouth tightens. But he lets him finish, for this is the most Belphegor has said in weeks.

“I wonder what face _you’d_ make, dear brother, when this little program ends in such a mess. A bitter end, with bits of human here and there, that’s sure to crush his reputation for good.” It wouldn’t be his first time rebelling against a figure used to unquestioning obedience.

But Lucifer is thorough. Belphegor already knows that he can never break out of his prison by force, and for his brother to emphasize that the entry to his prison is virtually invisible… there’s nothing. It renders his imagination useless just like everything else. Not even his own family will come save him. Maybe he’ll be forgotten, just like Lilith.

“No one will ever find you, and no one will ever know you’re here.”

It’s a slap to a gaping wound. Why does Lucifer not see? What _happened_ to him?

“I’m touched that you’d go such lengths for this good-for-nothing rebel. Why do you keep coming here? What’re you so afraid of? That I might die of loneliness?” He gazes back, eyes bulging like a fly’s, larger than his head.

Belphegor reminds himself that if looking sad and sorry did anything, Lilith would still be alive. So he laughs right in Lucifer’s sorrowful face. “Don’t pretend that’s for me, O mighty brother. You’re just afraid of letting your slave driver Diavolo down, isn’t that it? Because I’m a _threat?”_

The silence is worse because it means he has to keep poking for answers that won’t come. “Damn it, Lucifer! You can lock me up until I rot, but say it! Stop acting like other people can’t think for themselves just because you won’t!”

“There’s no other way, Belphie.”

“That won’t work on me. I’m not Beel!”

He’s tired. “What do you want me to say, then?”

Such a simple question that tears into open rawness. “I want you to say that you’d defy Diavolo, the way you did… did for Lilith! Tell me that you’d never have let this happen if you had enough power to beat him!”

Lucifer recoils like he’s been punched. “I can’t.”

“You know,” the emotions burn and Belphegor snatches them back under his usual cynicism, “the old Lucifer had an actual backbone. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He was a… an actual avatar of pride.” It’s the closest he’ll get to admitting how proud he had been of his big brother once upon a time.

“You’ve come a long way from who you once were as well, Belphegor.” He turns for the stairs. “Memory deceives even demons. I can only hope the grief placed on you fades into something less painful.”

No! He won’t let Lilith fade… who would she have left if even he turns his back on her memory? Belphegor screams himself hoarse long after Lucifer is gone. The confinement is getting to him but he cannot bring himself to pay Lucifer’s price for freedom, which must be to forget. To be brainless as Mammon, or as frivolous as Asmo. If he looks the other way, can he truly be able to look ahead and never back?

He collapses against the doorframe. Right now, he’d do anything to pass out into eternal sleep, but it won’t come. His head is full of different voices screaming for people he can’t reach and things he can’t have. 

So he calls. Softly, despairingly, for himself to believe that someone might hear and give him the answers. He’s sick of pretending he knows what he’s doing. Though he has no reason to, he wonders what the newest exchange student looks like. If it looks like the man that brought Lilith to ruin, then he would be in no hurry to dismember bit by bit.

The lines between dreams and the bleak reality he lives is blurry enough; he relies much on his imagination to get him through. So when something actually starts to respond to his voice, he almost thinks it’s Lucifer messing with him. He indulges in it anyway, as a distraction if nothing else.

“Huh.”

It’s a real human. Not particularly big or exceptional-looking—doesn’t look like a fighter, either. It stares at him with a sort of detached appraisal that reminds him too much of Lucifer and Diavolo and—then it laughs.

“You’re finally here,” he says like he’s been waiting all this time.

“Yes, you wouldn’t quiet down and let me sleep.” Arms cross and the laughter stops, but a quirk of the lips remain. “I thought I’d find hidden treasure, something amazing. But you’re just…” A shake of the head. “Just a kid.”

 _Kid?_ What a stupid assumption… fitting of its kind. A human, not subject to Lucifer’s spells and rules. He can’t let it go. “I’m a human. **Just like you.** ”

“Funny,” you toss back, “you don’t look like one.”

“But I am,” he insists. “You know Lucifer? He imprisoned me. I can’t remember how long I’ve been stuck here.” This, at least, is true. Belphegor did not become one of the high-ranking demons without learning that the best, unquestionable lies are forged with just enough truth to coax faith. And it works: you have seen how ruthless his eldest brother can be.

“Please, help me escape.”

“I don’t suppose it’ll be easy like me breaking down the door.” Your voice is dry. “So, I can't. I’m in enough trouble as is.” You tilt your head, getting a good look. “What are _you_ in for, anyhow?”

Keen observers are a nuisance. Troublemakers are a hassle. So, he plays to what you want… what you _must_ want. “A misunderstanding, really. I just need to get out of here. And if you help, I’ll send you straight back to the human world.”

Now, _this_ gets your attention. He has to hide his glee; were it so easy! “Not a bad deal, right?”

“Maybe. How can you do that?”

“Hm… the same way you make pacts with demons?” he shrugs. “I’ll explain everything, but first, you have to open this door.” Explaining the pacts is a straightforward matter; you already have Mammon and Leviathan bent to your will. If you have the pacts of every avatar, this door is nothing. The next pact you should make is with…

“How’s that now?” You say suddenly, turning sharp. “How do you know about those?”

“What matters is that you did, and you can do more.” He doesn’t have to feign desperation for this. “Please, you’re the only one who can help me now. I can’t… I can’t even remember what the sky looks like. All I want is to get out of here, and I know you want to, too. We can help each other. I know we can.”

You stare at him, pitying and suspicious. Were he not in this damnable prison he could reach out and—

“Beelzebub, you say?” Your tongue clicks against the side of your mouth. “He seems decent. Hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

If only you knew. But you don’t, so Belphegor puts on his most winning smile. He remembers humans like to affirm promises with a handshake and he’s thankful that he doesn’t have to run the risk of _touching_ you without snapping that fleshy limb. So he just smiles.

“Then, we have a deal.”

To a demon like Belphegor, you don’t stand out as an especial prodigy. Then again, an idiot like Mammon isn’t all that hard to trick into a pact, he supposes. With all the games from the human world that Leviathan scrambles for, odds are there was one you used to reel him in, too. Beel is peerless; he is the best of his brothers. Belphegor shakes his head.

He doesn’t have the luxury of being choosy. If you’re lucky, you’ll get close enough to Beelzebub. He worries somewhat for his twin’s naïveté; he is too pure, too trusting. But that’s what makes him Beel, the only brother who truly knows him and loves him anyway. If that luck stretches to the others… if even somehow Lucifer can be tricked…

If you’re unlucky… then, well, the exchange program ends with you.

Either way’s fine.

* * *

“You’re back,” he presses against the door, eyes bright. For once, he has something that makes him impatient, something to look forward to. “I knew—I knew you would. If anyone could. You didn’t tell them about me, right? I mean, if they knew…”

He controls his voice so as not to sound too wheedling, measuring the flattery and hesitancy so as to get the precious well of information. He was adamant that you never mention his existence in the attic, but if you didn’t keep your mouth shut, he’s doomed.

A stick is jutting out of your mouth, which delays your end of the talking for a bit. Belphegor remembers sucking on the Comfort Candies from Beel’s stash; second drawer from the top. Back when he had an addiction to dipping them in poison, Beel always made sure to save them up.

“So, is Beelzebub warming up to you?”

You take your sweet time. Literally. You don’t have the patience to lick a lollipop to the centre so all Belphegor hears is the crunch of your teeth demolishing the horned candy. You don’t _look_ like you ended in utter failure, Belphegor deduces, but you must have something on your mind to stall like this. Or you’re toying with him. Rubbish; it’s supposed to be the other way around.

When you finally open your mouth, he glimpses your tongue, dyed a bright purple.

“Mind telling me more about you first, Belphegor?”

This gives him pause. He hadn’t expected Beel to tell you so soon, but that he did is a promising sign. Still, it’d have been funnier to see you skirt around the subject all apprehensive, try to make him confess it himself; not that he ever would. Evidently you’re not a _fun_ human and he says as much. You smirk.

“Sure, sure. But let’s be honest; you’re not all that well-rounded, either. If you were, you wouldn’t be here, am I right?”

The ease of your amusement is enlightening and provoking; you never took him at face value in the first place, had never believed for a second he was human, and you probably didn’t take anything seriously, including yourself.

His annoyance rises in estimation. Humans like you are the ones most indifferent to their careless actions.

“Humans really are a stupid, foolish lot.”

You tilt your head. “And demons really are a cunning sort.” Your smile mixes with a bitter turn of the mouth. “Guess I’ll have to keep a closer watch over my soul. Don’t want it corrupted so soon.” Your eyes flick past him to the attic. “Anything else you’re hiding?”

It’s a dumb question; he hides so many things beyond your understanding. It’s the nature of demons and those who cavort with them to skirt across the boundaries of rules, lying through teeth and sacrilege to get what they want. “Everything else is the truth. Lucifer locked me in here and made my brothers think I went to the human world as an exchange student. Crazy, isn’t it?”

You’re cheesed—intrigued, for sure, but peeved nonetheless. “This whole place is crazy. That includes you, too.”

“All I want is to talk to Lucifer.” Maybe add a few curses. “It was just a misunderstanding that got out of hand.” Which was Lucifer’s fault. It had to be. “If my brothers learn about this, they’d fly into a rage.” He believes that they would come to his defence, just like they did for Lilith, no matter how quickly they forgot afterwards. “A proper face-to-face talk with Lucifer should sort it out. That’s what I want. You understand, don’t you?”

“Not really, no.” You scrape some dirt from underneath your fingernails. “Sounds like it’d be easier if I bring Lucifer over here instead and have you two sort it out—”

 _“No,”_ he says, a little too quickly. Your stare propels him to justify: “I’ve known Lucifer for longer than you. He’ll just say what he has to say and leave knowing I can’t hold him back. And if he knows you’ve been talking to me… he’ll be furious.” To put it mildly.

He finally sees satisfaction: the flicker of uncertainty across your face. You tap your foot, twiddling the paper stick between your fingers. Then you nod.

“You’re right.” A pause as you chew on the end of the stick, sucking the last dregs of candy that’s left. “I should stay the hell out of here.”

A wise decision, Belphegor agrees, but one that goes very much against his own interests. “So you don’t trust me.”

“You haven’t exactly been a trustworthy demon…”

He won’t beg. Demons do not beg for aid from humans they intend to finish off. But he will try to stick to truths, seeing you won’t accept anything else. “You’re the only person left who can help me now. That much is real. I want my family back. But I want a peaceful solution and the only way for that is for me to get out of here first.”

If he kills Lucifer, or as close to killing him as possible, it will make him feel better. The layers of hurt he doesn’t dare examine too closely will be expunged, like when his wings were ripped out from their very roots, a final sharp pain followed by nothingness. He will be better; his very thoughts scream assurance, drowning everything else out.

“How do I know I can trust you?” you demand.

Because you foolishly and recklessly came to me first, Belphegor wants to yell. If you don’t help me, no one will. I will stay here till I rot because I will never, ever take back what I said, not like Lucifer! But you will help me because you’re the only opportunity I have, and you will make everything right, with your life and then your death.

“You don’t.”

“Uh ok, well goodbye then.”

That was a movie line that had worked, but only in fiction. The cure will start with your end. “If you reconsider, I’ll be waiting.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I hardly think you’ll be going anywhere else anytime soon.” You turn your heel.

Humans sure take their time, don’t they? He sees your retreating back; you’ll never come here again. It’ll be just him once more, alone with his memories whom Lucifer told him to leave behind. As if the grief and longing of the past can be discarded like a used overcoat. How did Lucifer do it? How could he deceive his own memories?

Belphegor doesn’t want to know the answer to that, but he cannot resist wondering. If there is a jar, similar to Pandora’s Woe, containing some curse that will cloud his vivid recollections into nothing, will he open it?

In the corner of the attic stands a full-length oval mirror. Belphegor has always been a little hateful of the things he sees in the looking glass and when he’s sure you’re off the last step of the stairs, he shoves his hand through the centre just so he can feel something he has a semblance of control over. A broken hand is easier to fix than everything else he has on his plate.

Time relapses into indistinguishable sludge that smothers him with each tick of the wall clock. Who does Fortune favour? The bold? The prepared? The ones with nothing to lose? If Belphegor is none of these, then why does he hear the already-familiar gait of footsteps? Certainly not Lucifer’s; there’s a grating arrogance even in his stride, weighted with perceived importance.

“I didn’t think to see you again,” he admits, and hastily adds, “so soon, if ever. Changed your mind?”

“Yes,” you make a face, shrugging your shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. How misguidedly gullible you are, Belphegor wants to tease, for being so embarrassingly honest about yourself. It’s discomforting, another reason to make you the first sacrifice in his quest to right the wrongs inflicted since this exchange program and everything before it. “I decided to.”

“So you’ll help me?” He wants to laugh, both in glee and derision. You didn’t disappoint, you fool. “What made you decide?”

“Your brother,” you shrug again, “misses you. He’s been good to me and this is how I’ll repay his kindness.”

Oh? “Who?”

“Your older brother,” you answer as if that clears everything. Then you tip your back and snort in mirth at the wintry glare he gives you. “Here’s a deal: I’ll tell you who after I get you out.”

Whatever—whoever your reason is, the end result will be the same: he will be free. He doesn’t even care all that much as to _who_ influenced you to help him. Really, he doesn’t. Which is why he stresses all the more vehemently that you do **not** tell them that their youngest brother is locked in a prison literally above their heads. Now that you’re in this for real, so is he.

“So go back,” he instructs, mollified that you’re giving your undivided attention to him, “make sure you double-check your surroundings before coming upstairs to me.”

“Cool.” You give a thumbs-up. “Sleep tight.”

“One more thing.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Okay, okay, I’m listening.”

“I appreciate you coming here. I really do.”

You blink thrice before the words settle in. “Hah?”

“I’m grateful. That you came… and that you agreed to help me.” He smiles, and at this moment, he truly means it. He is given a valuable resource, which he will use as skilfully as he needs to until his objective is fulfilled. He doesn’t need to think about what’ll happen afterwards. These are steps that must be taken in order. “Thank you.”

You frown, searching his face and words for underlying falsehoods. But you can’t find what’s not there, so you give a firm nod and a pleased grin.

“You’re welcome, Belphegor.”


	2. Acedia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You only see what you choose to see, and you see only the negative in [their] persona. You are blind to what [they] see.”_  
>  ― Calvin and Hobbes: The Series

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a more self-indulgent piece of writing as well as an experimental one, the updates will be intermittent.  
> It’s hard to write an actual ship, so I’m thankful that this series has a smaller traction.

Belphegor cannot say his captivity was monotonous prior to your intrusion. That implies deprivation of all senses, like extended sleep. When he is with nothing but his own thoughts, occasionally threaded by Lucifer’s detestable visits, it is all he can do to not crumble from the overcharge. The colours of the attic bleed dry and no matter how bright the lights are, everything is too dark to see properly even when he wakes up sweating.

Now he is adapting to a sound of steps that is different from the others. Lucifer struts. Satan’s steps are also purposeful, but less insufferable. Asmo prances. Beel takes huge strides that sometimes make the floor shudder. You put as little weight as possible into your heels as you hike up the stairs.

Your visits are not as often as he’d like, but not so scarce that he can suspect you of neglect, or forgetting him. Sometimes you bring food. You speak often of his family, which irritates him to no end: they’re not _your_ family, so why do you speak of them with appreciation? It’s not your place.

“Your brothers are weird,” is the first thing you say as you plop down on the ground.

He rolls his eyes. “This exchange program must have made them soft. Some of them have killed for lesser insults.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Lucifer already tried.”

“To kill you?” His ears perk up. “What happened?”

“I made a pact with Beelzebub’s what happened.” You rub a thumb over the knuckles of your other hand with a little smile that leaves him feeling inexperienced and left out before the importance of those words weighs in. “He’s a sweetheart. He misses you a lot and—”

He interrupts hastily; surely nothing you have to say is as critical as his. “They definitely trust you, then. It’s surprising, I admit. You don’t strike as the type of person who comes through for… anything, really.”

You spit a laugh and look him in the eye. “And here you are, a helpless bird in a cage, with no choice but to rely on me.”

He scowls. Even his brothers are easier to rile up than this. But what is the point of riling you up when you’re his only ticket out of this filthy cell? His face twists deeper as you mockingly posture in a gesture of servitude: “How am I doing, Lord Belphegor, sir? Have I finally proven myself worthy among all humans, sir?”

Not even close. If anything, he won’t be in a hurry to dispose of you right here and now. “Stop joking around. You did pull through, despite everything. It was meant to be a compliment.”

“Oh!” You gasp and flop a hand to your forehead. “My lord’s praise is the delight of my soul!”

“It’s not funny.” He’d turn away if so much weren’t at stake. “You’re not funny.”

“You make it too easy.” You yawn. “Fine, I’ll go. I need to pack, anyway.”

“Pack for what?”

“A party.” Every conversation with you goes like this. He may be asking the questions but you decide what to talk about, drawing him in and leaving him dangling as you jump to the next topic without a single afterthought. “The Demon Lord’s Castle for exchange students. I hope they have bellini. Limoncello would be nice. Demonus is just juice.”

“How long is the party?” His fingers tighten a fraction as you’ve already turned your back to him. “When is it?”

You wave your hand without looking back. “Quiet down. Lucifer might hear.”

Left alone once again, he fumes.

Out of all the humans that could’ve been chosen, why did Diavolo choose the most annoying, uncooperative piece of work? That alone raises questions, but it isn’t until Lucifer’s visit where he makes an offhand comment about the newest exchange student’s affability with his darling Lord Diavolo that the question resurfaces en gravitas: why you?

Not because of your giggling, Belphegor’s sure of that much. Conversations with you can hardly be called such when he has to work so hard to rein you back to the point. He marvels at your silliness—as in you either have stupidly divine luck or must be secretly in service to the Great Witch Maddi to have come as far as you did.

Such is his nerves that he asks you, almost accusingly.

You absent-mindedly stare at your textbook. “I knew someone named Madeline. She hated being called Maddi.”

“She’s not some great witch?” he presses. “Do you keep in contact?”

“Nah. We were in the same daycare and school before she transferred in third grade. Never saw her again.”

He should believe you, but he doesn’t. “Where’s she now?”

“Underground.” You turn a page. “She died five years ago. Drunk driving.”

“Oh.” Then probably not. Belphegor’s no Diavolo (thank all unholy forces for that) but he’s certain that you’re not lying. “I didn’t know that.”

“How would you?” You scribble something in the margins before highlighting keywords in the last paragraph. “I’ve never mentioned her before.”

So it’s luck. Suddenly, he’s eager to change the subject. “Does Lucifer not know you come here almost every night?”

Your Devildom History notes are almost complete. “He said demons can’t come here. And no one can see the attic door even if they tried. Probably a complex weave of spells.” You shrug. “Just like Lucifer himself.”

Finally, some useful information. You seem oblivious, leafing over your pages occasionally as Belphegor sorts through everything, pretty efficiently for a demon of sloth. So no one but you can access the stairs… and see the door to the attic. It’s not like Lucifer to be that sloppy, allowing a security breach that a _human_ of all creatures can bypass without even realizing it.

An exchange party is an idiotic gesture on Diavolo’s part, as is the case with many other things he did. Yet here, too, is an opportunity that you can and must take. “Hey… aren’t you curious?”

“About what?”

Would you just _look_ at him when he’s talking to you! He clears his throat. “About what makes you so special?” You’re still not looking up, so he tries again. “Don’t you want to know why you were chosen?”

“Not really.”

If Belphegor’s temperament was similar to yours he’d be congratulating himself on finding a human as dumb as Mammon. “A human, powerless and not all that talented, sealed pacts with three of my brothers. If I know Diavolo—” which he doesn’t, but he’s compelled to think the worst of him regardless, “—he had some kind of plan when choosing you. You were brought here for a **purpose.** Wouldn’t you like to know what that is?”

“…”

“Helloooo?”

“All right, done!” You slam your book shut with a satisfied grin. “Notes are a pain to write, but they do help. I’m already doing this pact project and you want me to dig around on my application or something?”

“It’s probably another thing they don’t want you finding out,” Belphegor mutters. “You’re going to that stupid party at the castle tomorrow. Search for what makes you so special. You probably won’t have to dig too deep, considering it’s Diavolo’s place.” He’ll admit to himself, he _is_ curious.

Not that it changes what he’ll do to you once there’s no longer a door separating you and him.

He ought to say something before you leave, however transitory. “Um… good luck.”

You snicker. But you look back this time, giving him almost a fond look. “Nah. Your brothers have me covered.”

The next few days are almost intolerable. Lucifer makes sure to leave enough food: braised Quetzalcoatl brains with pickled oleander. Like delicacies make up for lifetime imprisonment—unbeknownst to Lucifer, it’ll be much less than that. A few more months of coaxing, fabricating camaraderie and helplessness to tear it all apart.

With such imaginations fuelling his mind, he picks up the spoon. He must eat, to preserve his strength in time for the cataclysm that will come.

Is it a coincidence that you were selected for the exchange program? Belphegor doubts that very much. Like it was a mere chance that Diavolo snapped up Lucifer almost immediately after they were cast from heaven. Ha-ha. Great. Your flippancy is rubbing off on him. This has to end soon.

He snatches sleep when it comes, and within a few hours he wakes from a dream where you’re chasing after Beel and Lucifer in a meadow. He pursues, screaming for them to get away, the human will endanger them, but he’s too slow, ever too slow. You transform into a monster, armed and fanged—he has no voice, something’s constricted around his throat and he can only gasp—you draw back an arrow that embeds into unguarded wings and then it’s her cry, wailing in despair— _I didn’t mean it, Lilith! I swear!_

“I didn’t!” He bolts upright in bed, hair plastered to his cheek. “Where are you? Come back…”

But he did mean to like humans and how could he not have shared his interests with someone he loved so much? Doesn’t matter, though: she’s still gone. No one cares for her existence if they even remember. Just like Father wanted, he recalls with venom.

Hatred warms, calming the shudders crawling over his body. Fate cannot be changed, but there’s nothing forbidding him from taking what he _can_ change into his hands. They scrunch into fists around his pillow.

“What took you so long?” This time, he doesn’t turn to face you. Give you a taste of your own medicine, as though you’re not good enough to speak like equals.

“The usual.” You sit, having brought a cushion this time from your bedroom. “Some near-death accidents, but hey, scored a pact with Asmodeus.” He’s hard-pressed to keep still. “He’s not as silly as he looks, you know? For some reason he couldn’t charm me, whatever that entails, but I like him.” You chuckle. Belphegor cannot ignore the warmth in your voice as you continue. Every time you come, you’re a little more talkative about all the wrong things. That’s a good thing, right? More information to slip. “Like Beel. And then Lucifer joined us in a pillow fight.”

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Are you done?” Except for the catch in his voice, he sounds almost bored. “What am I, your personal diary now?”

By the time he turns to face you, you have already schooled your face into a neutral expression. “Didn’t realize you had more than enough books to pass the time.”

“I need your _help_ to escape this prison. Not idle gossip.”

“Are you sure you even want to reconcile with your brothers?” You sit cross-legged. “You sure don’t give a damn about how they’re doing.”

“I can catch up with them when I’m out.” The resentment tips over, fuelled by your presumption that you know about his family… that you know anything at all to trust them so! “I have more years going for me, whereas you? You’ll probably expire by the time you can begin to comprehend exactly what kind of relationship I have with my brothers.”

He flicks his gaze to yours with a cutting glare. For once, you stay silent, not countering him with a sarcastic jibe or a mellow word that would just inflame him more. No, you’re looking at him, directly into his eyes, and as he stares right back smouldering, your face flickers, overlapping with another like an indistinct mask. But it’s just you, really looking at him for the first time. No one else can be here, talking to him at this moment.

Belphegor drops his gaze and the trance breaks. If relationships were visible to the naked eye, he’d see that yours has shifted from casual mockery to something oblique without a name. At any rate, you speak up first. “You’re right.”

You glance sideways, but apparently you’ve run out of things to say so you rise. “I’ll go bother Lucifer or something, I guess. Good night.”

“Wait!”

“I won’t tell him, you’re still an exchange student in the human world, et cetera.”

He (no you it’s always _you_ who can’t do it right) feels his plan taking two steps backwards. What words are there to keep you from going straight into Lucifer’s backstabbing presence? He cannot have you die just yet. Yes, that is it. By now he has invested too much in your potential to let you off yourself prematurely.

“I want… to be together a little longer,” is what comes out, in tones far less harsher than he should have them be. He braces for your laughter. He abruptly clamps his mouth shut, as if that would somehow hide his weakness.

What a pitiful thing he was. Not at all like his twin, whom you doted on. Amused exhalation comes out in a puff of air as you resume your seat, searching for the particular patience reserved for fussy children. For that is how you see him: an isolated child with nothing but miseries competing for his attention. It’s no good for anyone to be that lonely.

“You’re very strange.” You sit. You’re looking only at him, and you break into a smile. You smile so easily. “You’re also lucky I’m good with strange.”

It’s exasperating for Belphegor to sit and entertain while preserving your already-numbered days, which is really preserving his guarantee of jailbreak. But you’re here, sitting across from him. You’re not with his other brothers, doing your funny human thing to coerce pacts out of them. It leaves him at a loss of words, and when you offer to talk about trivial matters like your day, he doesn’t object.

“So, today,” you’re already grinning, “I saw some old planks outside with some bundles of hay or whatever in the side yard of the house. All I had to do was drag one over on top and, boom! Instant seesaw. Mammon and I jumped on it for hours, Levi and Asmo came, too, it was so fun! I almost reached the second floor window.”

What a hassle. It’s a wonder you didn’t break your ankles. “What about Beel?”

“He and Lucifer went to Hell’s Kitchen.” That explains the lack of lecturing for what was surely an uncondoned activity. “Satan was holed up reading some book. He seems decent enough.”

A sinking feeling in his gut that’s probably just hunger; when was the last time he had eaten? But finally, you say something that doesn’t make him bored or hungry or pissed. “He’s always well-behaved. But you have to be especially careful with his type.” If only he could see through your eyes, to observe how you’d finagle a pact with him.

“He’s been polite.” You shake his head. “Then again, it’s the politest ones who steal the rug out from under you, all smiles as they watch you fall like they never did a thing!” You chuckle and shake your head. “Still, I ought to give him a chance. I didn’t think much of your other brothers at first, either.”

Demons aren’t known for resisting temptation, so Belphegor goes ahead and asks. “What did you think of me, then?”

“Oop!” You slap your thigh. “The question of the hour!”

He couldn’t be less interested as you tap a finger against your chin. “I’m already tired of this.”

“I’ll keep it simple, then. I thought you were insufferable.” You shrug, as casual as though you were commenting on the weather. “Very demanding and mouthy for meeting a stranger for the first time.”

Oh, he’ll enjoy your death.

“I guess you’re not a stranger anymore, though. Just… very strange.” Your voice is soft, but you clear your throat, and the levity returns. “Could lose some of your prickles, though.”

“Don’t be stupid.” All humans were stupid. That’s all they knew how to be.

“See what I mean?” you commented to the adjoining wall. “And this is the demon who says I’m his last hope in this bleak world.” No matter how he bristles, you deflect with a lazy smile that he has to pretend to accept.

Your laughter rings in his ears. “Don’t look like that. You know perfectly well you’ve been far from a gentleman. But you’re all right, Belphegor. I’m bad at reading people, see, but I think you’re good.”

Distinctly taken aback, he uses his pillow to maintain his composure. You really are bad, he agrees, and the deprecating self-awareness is all the more advantageous to him. A smile should be the only thing he stifles, not the quieter emotions of confusion, wonder, and the vague regret when you go to leave.

Less than an hour after you depart, a much less welcome visitor passes by.

“Are you well?”

“If I am, it’s hardly thanks to you, O Merciful Brother.” For Lucifer, there is no tolerance, fabricated or smothered. “You, on the other hand, look as radiant as a star. Did Diavolo scratch you behind the ears for keeping the human alive for another day?”

“That’ll do, Belphegor.” Lucifer carries a finality that brooks no further. “Their future is not yours to decide.”

“No,” Belphegor agrees, baring his teeth, “it’s all yours to abduct and manipulate as you please, isn’t it?”

“The exchange program…” Lucifer sucks air in through his teeth and tries to remember what it was like to talk to his youngest brother when their love for each other was untainted. “I don’t expect you to see it now, but the program… is not so bad as you think, Belphie. They—the exchange student is… a handful, but they have adjusted, earning respect from those among our kind. Earned, not given. I hope you can try to understand that.”

He doesn’t! Why should he? “Did they earn _your_ respect? You, the Avatar of _Pride?”_

Somehow, it always comes back to his sins. “That is not the issue.”

His deflection speaks more than any other answer he’d give, and Belphegor hates him for it. “I’ll make sure you get a good view when I’m done with them.”

“I cannot let that happen.” His overcoat is over his arms, masks any involuntary spasms of his hands if there were any at all. “You know I cannot, for both of your sakes. They’re not answerable for any fault you bear for their kind.”

“Right. Because everything you and Diavolo do is faultless, isn’t it?” He cries, shrill and accusing, heavy with contempt. “Nothing’s ever your fault, it’s all mine, that’s how it was since we fell!”

Pounding against the door only hurts his hand. But Lucifer doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he’s worse than defeated. “Good night, Belphegor.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll have those here. Not like you’d know that,” he calls out.

Lucifer lets him have the last word; it doesn’t look like he can give anything else.

* * *

“Don’t you ever sleep?” he drawls one evening.

You slump back against the wall, staring at the blinking screen of your D.D.D, glimpsing it more with each successive visit. What was the point of you coming here if you were focused on your lump of technology?

“The hell coffee, which, by the way, you guys should come up with a cooler name for that,” you always stuff in needless opinions as you talk, “is pretty effective. I just hope I don’t bomb tomorrow’s theory test.”

He hasn’t touched something so mundane as schoolwork in months. As you rattle on formulas he barely understands, for you memorize best by repetition, he listens. If he thought he was annoyed by the prattling of basic course content, well, he’d rather you continue on with that than shift the topic to something worse: his family.

That’s the funny part. You’re not pushing for reconciliation—you never _push_ but you hinted at it during the first days. Now it’s just insignificant and mindless tales of his brothers’ usual shenanigans. He all but slams his hands down in frustration as you rattle one anecdote after another.

“It’s like I can imagine them right here with me,” he snaps the words, bitter brittle things.

“Won’t be only imagination for long!” You clap your hands together. “You should be excited.”

You thrive on annoying him. Or maybe this is really who you are, which is worse. Belphegor just doesn’t know how.

“What’ll you do once you get out of here?” You’re curious. He avoids many questions, including this one.

“Once I get out of here?” he echoes. Last night, it came close. He had dreamed of Beelzebub, trying to make him guess who he was. Beelzebub had gone through every brother, though that had to be for your benefit—you were there, too. Beelzebub talked to you like you were a friend. He spoke of Lilith… his adorable, wonderful little sister.

Why did he speak of her to _you?_ What made you worthy to know of her name? Why didn’t you bring it up with him, the Avatar of Sloth, who loved her the most?

“I’ll talk to Lucifer, of course.”

“Yes, yes,” you shake your head. “And then? A café, or go outside and frolic in the fields?”

That’s what you meant. “Sure, why not.”

“Funny, I can’t imagine you frolicking.” You rub your eyes. “But hey, anything you want to do, it’s good to imagine. Do them with your brothers when you get out, live a little. What’s the first thing you wanna do?”

What idle thinking. The first thing is to dispatch you to the Reaper. Then all of the pieces will fall out of place: Lucifer’s arrogance, Diavolo’s scheming, and all of the demons who are his enemies. “Whatever Beel wants. Maybe nap in the fields while you frolic.”

“Me? Frolic!” You laugh. “How’d you know I do that?”

“You look the type.”

“I do, don’t I?” You put your phone down. “I can see it now. You and Beel napping. I’ll play catch with Mammon and Asmo while Levi plays on his console. Satan can read in the shade and Lucifer… well, I’m not sure what he does in his free time.”

He doesn’t realize his smile has curdled at his brothers perverting what should be a light, pure dream where he gets everything he wants. “Lucifer’s idea of fun would be waiting on Diavolo hand and foot.”

“That does seem to be the case,” you agree, lifting his spirits a little, but not enough to stop wallowing in aggravation. “I feel sorry for him.”

When he was the reason he was a prisoner? “Your pity’s wasted on the likes of him.”

“You guys figure it out when you have that conversation,” you continue as if you hadn’t heard a word. “I have to pact with him, too, to get you out of here. Any tips?”

“I think…” he grits his teeth, “…you should focus on Satan first before turning to bigger fry.”

He’s tense. You don’t see him sweat but his expression is such that your mouth tuck in at the corners. You still don’t know what to make of his mood swings. Beel said he and his twin are as different as can be. Yeah, no kidding!

“Okay,” you lower your voice, trying to sound indulgent. “Then can you tell me how to get close to Satan?”

His ‘brother’, loosely speaking. Fourth, but the youngest. That and their mutual hatred towards Lucifer makes him a decent ally. Sometimes Satan does act and sound like the eldest. Belphegor doesn’t mind this. This way, it’s easier to differentiate from his other younger sibling, and Satan, for all his faults, never presumes to fill in the gnawing hole Lilith left behind. He’s too busy trying to escape Lucifer’s shadow, anyhow; he won’t dare slip into another.

“He’ll be harder to charm than Asmo.” That much is accurate.

“Yes, he doesn’t seem easy,” you try, and fail, to suppress your sarcasm. “He’s keeping his distance. If that’s all you have to give, I’ll do it myself.”

“You’ve reached this far on your own, didn’t you?” Credit where credit’s due though he still hasn’t let go of the idea of you secretly being some great witch or other. “You’ll figure something out, just like you did with Levi and Asmo.”

“You just want to leave the hard planning to me,” you retort, but you smile as you say it.

“Should I wish you luck?”

“If you want. Are you afraid for me, Belphegor?” You hold a hand to your chest. “How touching.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But he’s smiling, too. You’re present, fully committed, facing him with utter trust, ready to believe everything that comes out of his mouth. It feels better than power. Definitely better than the disorganized confusion that comprises his memories and thoughts, which are now focused on a singular goal.

He owes it all to you. Perhaps, as thanks, he will reveal the terrible truth to you before bringing about your demise.

And then—he doesn’t think any more than that lest he go back to the frustration that’s gnawing at him from inside out. He’s cautious, delicately manipulating you over with one measured action to the next, but there’s also a good chunk that he’s winging to match your incomprehensible pattern of behaviour.

Not for the first time, he wonders if you’re more trouble than he can handle. Then he starts laughing; if _he’s_ thinking that, what would Lucifer think, Lucifer who has to deal with you every second of the day?

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he starts. Is there a point to lie about this, though? He decides that there isn’t, but there’s no need to lay it bare. “Wondering what my brothers think of you. All of them.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Most don’t bother to conceal their feelings towards you… or, in some cases, are excruciatingly bad at hiding them. “Not sure what to make of Lucifer. Actually, I bet he probably hates me.” Your breezy laughter is telling of just how thoughtless you are. Empty. He almost envies it. Maybe this is why you dealt with Mammon first.

“Doesn’t seem like it bothers you.” He hopes his bitterness isn’t too obvious.

“Why should it?” You can talk fast when it’s to forestall someone else. “Yes, I know _why._ But, as you said, I’ve made it so far. And I’ll think of a solution when I get there. Like I did last time, though I had Solomon with the assist.”

Both the name and the person irritate him. “Don’t trust the likes of him. I’m serious.”

You wave him off. For a human, your pride rivals Lucifer’s, and that’s saying something. Poor you, thinking you’re no one’s puppet, accommodating him because you think you’re in charge. Poor little human, who has no idea they’re under the thrall of an avatar of sin.

He looks forward to your face contorting in fear when you will rightfully be at his mercy. Truly helpless, with nothing to keep him from you. When you realize that you were his all along; his to toy with, his to do as he pleased.

Unless, of course, you blunder and fall to another demon’s clutches. He dismisses that thought almost before it fully forms; that is not going to happen. No one can make a claim on you anymore. He can almost taste the imminent freedom and it carries the smell of… flowers?

“Is that Asmo’s perfume?” he asks harshly.

“Yup. A gift, after we made the pact,” you say as you continue to fluff your hair; it’s good to finally let it down after a long day. “He insisted that we match for today.”

“No wonder I’ve gotten a headache since you came here,” he snaps. “Roses. Gross. I might actually get sick.”

“A-ha…” You step back. “Hey, it was either this or Devian’s Honey, and Beel tried to _eat_ Asmo when he wore it.”

“It’d be better for you to not use anything he gives,” he grumbles, crossing his arms to let you know how much he disapproves. “That’s how he gets you under his spell to eat you.”

“That _would_ be a shame. Beel had no qualms against eating me, either. I daresay he would’ve, if Lucifer didn’t stop him,” you confess candidly. “You demons are strange that way.”

It’s not an insult, but even in this, Belphegor is compelled to defend his twin. “That’s just because he didn’t know you in the beginning.”

“Of course he wouldn’t.” You glance up with a grin. “Who’s to say any of you do even now?”

“I know you can keep a secret or two.”

“Yes, I suppose,” you concede. “I’m also very good at catch.”

“Maybe we can play once I’m out of here?”

“That’d be nice. Assuming the attic stay hasn’t made you go all soft. Maybe Beel can join, too.”

Deception is a demon’s bread and butter and Belphegor knows to eat well. “You haven’t played with him before?”

“Surprisingly, no. A big game of… something… is coming up and he has to train for that. He said he’d make more time after, but until then—” you stretch, popping the joints in your sternum. “Mammon and Asmo are just fine. Which reminds me, I should ask if they have more perfume.”

“You should ask Beel.” Another sentence he utters without thinking over the consequences.

“He wears perfume?”

“No, just body wash.”

He wouldn’t mind if you smell like him, though. It might make up for how you make him wait and test his patience with your incessant frivolity. Beel doesn’t care about the scent of their shared body products; that’s on Belphegor, picking the best smells to fall asleep to. The imagination of you bearing his scent is… it’s something, he’ll give it that.

Yes, he’d rather it be Beelzebub’s. None of the other brothers know how to share.

“Are you going to ask him?” He poses this as nonchalantly as he can.

“In my world, asking to use the same shower stuff is weird,” you tease. “I don’t want to give Beel the wrong idea.”

“Why would it be the wrong idea?”

“I should go. I have a lot to do for tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t. Why would it be the wrong idea?”

“The rest of us can’t roll around in a room all day. See you later, Belphegor.” You head downstairs.

Nothing to do but wait and fume. Belphegor does a lot of both because what he wants to do is to reel you back and get it through your thick skull that you don’t get to walk away after luring him, taking the disarray in and around him, and throwing it all back mixed up. The only step he has ahead of you is a plan he’s no longer sure to keep.

Against his better nature, he considers a different kind of impossible: if you lived. What kind of person are you to land these pacts with his brothers? It took Solomon forty days to seal a pact with just one of them, and here you are, making it look _easy_ without bartering your soul _._ Even the least introspective demon has to wonder at the phenomenon.

Assuming that doesn’t get to your head—what else could be in your head? Are you so vapid that you went right over his brothers’ heads? What secrets do you keep from all of them? He’d ask Beel but you said that was the wrong idea. You hold a lot of mysteries for such a frail thing. A lot of beautiful things lose their appeal once the mysteries are solved and stripped from them. Belphegor, the demon of discovery and ingenuity, knows this very well.

Above all, you’re a human. You’re one of those that brought down Lilith, a name that still digs into wounds that don’t know how to stop bleeding. What would you care for her? Humans, who destroy everything good in their pathetic lives.

“Lilith… Lilith, I miss you.” Of that, he is certain. Why did you have to come along and make him doubt even that unshakeable truth? He’s going to kill you for it. Watching you suffer will ease his sister’s pain more than digging through your brain to figure out everything frustrating about you so that you become another mundane human filled with wrong ideas that are yours and lies that are his.

The next time Belphegor sees you, the door is open.


	3. Number Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“In my head, I do everything right.”_  
>  ― Lorde - Supercut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The human skull is only three stacked pennies thick.
> 
> It can take less than 10 seconds for a person to lose consciousness as a result of strangulation, and death can occur in just under five minutes. According to the Training Institute on Strangulation Prevention, nearly four in five victims of strangulation are strangled manually (with hands).

The lattice door is swung back as far as the hinges allow.

His ears are ringing, the way when he tries to discern dreams from reality. Too many nights of fantasizing freedom makes him initially doubt his senses, but the impenetrable barrier is gone. He tries to make sense of Lucifer’s spellwork, also gone.

Belphegor takes it in, faster than you can perceive. All you see is a moment of shock that gives way to euphoria, an acceptable response for a prisoner set free. He’s jubilant, heaping smiles and praises upon you, shielding you a little longer on exactly whose victory this is.

“You did it… you actually did it!” How did you make a pact with Lucifer and Satan? The two most prideful demons? “You freed me from this prison, you’re wonderful—” —ly naïve, dancing in the middle of his palm like a picture.

Except you have a speculative look as you rub your wrist and you’re not smiling. You grimace, as though disappointed. “Thanks. I still have questions, but guess it’s on Diavolo to answer _this._ I should go back.”

He chuckles, watching a child’s whims. “Don’t be like that. Come on, I should thank you first.” You can’t wave him off this time and run off to Diavolo’s arms. The thought sours his amusement and his body begins to shake.

If you blinked, you would’ve missed it. One moment, a boy who looks younger than you laughs like he is given the recompense of the world; the next, a horned demon towers over you, air crackling around him as claws lock around your throat, slamming you against the nearest wall.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he resumes in the same childish delight, for he is glad. For once, you’re looking at him and him alone, with nothing else able to distract either of you. “Now I can finally achieve what I set out to do.”

“What—”

“How can I express how I’m feeling right now?” Betrayal has never tasted like joy before. Somehow, laughing with a condemned mortal chills him with what must be adrenaline.

Your throat throbs beneath his palms. The might of seven brothers wasn’t enough to save Lilith’s life; you have no right to yours. You’re helpless, so useless, and you cannot save anyone you care about, not even yourself. You could beg on both knees and offer your soul and it would never be enough.

It’s supposed to be a glorious moment. When he hears you gasp for breath, your pulse scrambling under his hands, they encourage him to squeeze harder. 

But you will know this before you go. “I hate humans, you know. More than anything in the three worlds.”

Leave it to this one human to withhold the satisfaction of even a plea. Why do you look past him, the one who is destroying both you, the exchange program, and Diavolo’s reputation? There’s nothing behind him except dust-coated mirror shards.

“Do you get it? It means I hate **you.** Is it hard to breathe?”

He only has to shake to jerk your head up. He laughs exultantly. There’s nothing forlorn and buried in this moment, where everything else is a memory unable to keep him captive.

“You’re so stupid that I can’t help but laugh.” He leans in at the transition of colour. What must’ve been your face now resembles an overripe plum, threatening to burst at the seams. Your grip slides off and no wheeze escapes the lips, let alone any words. It’s disgusting, but he continues to scrutinize the bleeding sunset etched across dying flesh, commanding every secret to break the surface and give him answers.

“Don’t blame me for tricking you.”

Your head rolls aside no matter how much he shakes. A faraway, muffled sound that carries dread. But your mouth doesn’t move. Maybe it’s Cerberus, or a roaming soul, howling in the dark. It could just be the wind. The only way to know for sure it’s not coming from you is to stop what he’s doing. For a moment, he considers—reconsiders.

To what end, he cannot explain. But if he stops, he knows for certain he will lose heart and be stuck forever.

He senses the irresponsibility of not following this through. This is the first time Belphegor, youngest and weakest of his brothers, is deciding the course of what lies beyond his own life. This is for Lilith and him. Delirious with success, he can be generous to dedicate this to you, too.

“Blame yourself for falling for it.”

It’s not like you deserved his attention in the first place. The necessity of putting a front for your comfort is gone. Your existence is a headache and your soul is awful to put up with… you were the worst tool he had to use. So you should be grateful that he was the one finishing you off.

He won’t need to check the attic door. He won’t feel your—the wet, audible crunch turns the remaining tension in the neck into pulp and everything is slack. A puppet with its strings cut must be discarded, yet he laughs, dreading the moment he must stop and let go.

When he exhausts his taunts, if not his emotions, he steps back. Watches what remains slide onto the floor, thinking red is not a colour that flatters you. He stands motionless for a long time. He doesn’t know when he’s on his knees.

Belphegor wishes Lilith could see how she is still loved. He’d take the slightest sign that she is nearby, missing him as much as he misses her. Yet, silence swallows. It does not honour or promise anything.

The worst is over, he can stop dreading. The first tear slides down his nose which must come from this amalgam of relief and weakness. His tears are for Lilith, he assures. Like a child reciting simple sentences to commit to memory, he huddles closer into himself, rocking, clutching a softness like a stuffed toy that draws warmth from his body.

That is a lie, of course. A lovely coo for a broken spirit, but a lie nonetheless. There is no warmth in him. If you could just say something to jolt him from the emptiness echoing beneath his fingertips, he might press closer to listen. He hears a wailing, faint enough to be a far-off wind.

_What has he done?_

A distant murmur of voices tightens the ring of his arms, around the hand to hold in the dark. He doesn’t have to pick out the words to know you are their subject. The bright colours of fabric kindle the speech that had captured his heart long ago. He stays for a silent heartbeat before shoving back as though he embraced a leper.

Blood is smeared on his clothes and hands, the rest clotted on what’s left. Your face is a blank mask. He could reach out and crush your skull, wrecking it into an unidentifiable mess that cannot criticize his foolishness. But if he won’t recognize who, how will they?

He secures his grip on the scruff of your neck, though his hand slips several times; only you’d go out your way to trouble him even in death. He wipes his face, preparing for the bated breath of an audience that may or may not be the workings of his unravelling mind. He descends down the stairs, warding off the silence with any noise he can make.

_Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of our circus troupe, I welcome you to the most astounding show you will ever see!_

His legs shake in anticipation and he hopes his show will be one to remember. When the best, or worst, was over then he would stop dreading. He runs, almost falling down the stairs, deciding that he is giddy to see what will happen.

“I’ve wanted to see you for so long, my brothers…”

_I promise you it will be something truly special, like a wonderful, fleeting vision granted to you by the magic of a shooting star._

The brothers’ worry for your absence skids to a halt when they lay their eyes upon a sight that freezes them where they stand, transfixed in the fleeting moment where the world stops spinning and time holds no place.

“Belphie…?”

“It’s you! But… but _how?”_

He thrusts his offering at the other traitors, saying in a voice that is almost defiant:

“There.”

The dreamlike trance shatters and Belphegor is knocked backwards, not to be dealt with, but swept aside in face of bigger concerns. Lucifer stares at you and the brother who pushed you towards him, disbelieving. His mouth opens, but he is voiceless.

“No! No, hang in there!” Mammon screams with panic. “Stay with me! Don’t do this!” To a chorus of echoed distress, Belphegor watches with fascinated horror, that his brothers have been reduced to this: shrieking over one bothersome human. He had done the same, but solely out of necessity that his confinement brought. What did they have to fuss about?

And they have you now. You are your own spectacle but Belphegor is the ringmaster of this show. Of his audience, two stand out in prominence. He smiles the way he believes Beel would agree with, the way that would make Lilith happy. 

_“Belphie, what have you done?!”_

Beel will understand. He had promised him that he would always be there for him, no matter what. Once the initial shock wears off, Beel will come back to him. The human bewitched him for less than a year; he has known his twin since birth and through fall. How he had missed him.

He had also missed Lucifer. Unlike him, so willing to forget those dear to him in service to Diavolo, Belphegor hasn’t forgotten a thing. That alone makes him laugh until his sides ache. “That’s exactly the look I was hoping to see on your face, Lucifer!”

The Morningstar shakes, stripped of his esteemed sin. His hands are clenched together and he doesn’t move, or perhaps he can’t. He looks pathetically helpless, unable to respond to the hysterics of his brothers. Belphegor relishes the despairing resignation dawning on his face and thinks: at last, Lucifer knows how it feels, a loss that he cannot possibly cast aside for some higher purpose. Even if it’s for a human.

Eternity is a long time to wallow in guilt but even that seems insufficient. Then again, what penance would satisfy a dead angel? A life for a life is only the beginning. When would Diavolo lay down his death sentence, and more importantly, how many brothers would be on his side?

As the ringmaster predicted, they witness something so splendid that Belphegor agrees afterward that it is a miracle. Your wine-coloured corpse dissipates as though it were a dream, dispelled into a shower of light that fades like stars before dawn. And, across the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, is you.

How could a human have the willpower to cling to life like that? The human had lied. They’re a witch, greater than Maddi, to convince him so thoroughly that they were anything more. The fury at this trickery he blows into enough rage to quench the torn relief that you are alive. Why do you and so many like you get to keep living?

You’re still not smiling. He is grateful for that. He doesn’t know what he’ll do—or what he can’t do—if you do. He hates doubting himself, but he will gladly live with suspicions over certainties. He lunges, but there is no second chance.

“Don’t speak of Lilith! Don’t you dare!”

You’re laughing, pushed backwards and falling on your back. Lucifer, first for a reason, breaks out of his stupefied shock and rushes to shield. The air simmers with a calm that could give way to anything ranging from a murder redux to an all-out brawl between the brothers, promising a bloodletting on proportions unheard of since the Fall. In the middle of the tempest is a human who can be crushed by a fraction of their power, and terrifying circumstances aren’t too different from terrible jokes. Laughter is essential, involuntary.

Belphegor refuses to acknowledge you won, baring his teeth as Diavolo and Barbatos arrive, effortlessly separating the brothers and dropping a bombshell that changes everything:

“In exchange for Lucifer’s allegiance, I granted Lilith new life as an ordinary human woman. They,” he points to you, “are her lineal descendant.” With the solicitous reassurance of a friend: “It’s true.”

The greater the miracle, the longer it takes to embrace it, especially for the jaded demon elite. The moment he accepts this is when he can no longer run from what had taken time immemorial to blank out: all of this is his fault.

“It can’t, it can’t, it can’t!”

From the moment he introduced Lilith to what he had loved to ending your life—to stop that same love from kindling again, it has always been him.

So he refuses because either way is a futile endeavour filled with dread. He seeks escape where there is none, snapping helplessly like a trapped animal. But an animal doesn’t have overwhelming guilt and memories that found their outlet at last, burning and spilling over control.

Lilith always wanted to live among humans, and the demons he hated the most had given her happiness. If he didn’t invite her down to the human world, she wouldn’t have met the man. If he was just a bit stronger, he could’ve protected her—

“I was right beside her! Lilith was right there!” His sentences are cries strewn together until the rain of the hell within himself streaks his face. “It was my fault!”

His brothers are silent.

“No. You’re wrong.”

You nudge Lucifer closer as you take a step back. Only you, Diavolo, and Barbatos remain dry-eyed and wary. Lucifer continues, “It wasn’t your fault, Belphie.”

“Lucifer…”

“I wish I told you that sooner.”

With that, Belphegor's last defiance vanishes, and the next sounds that come from him rack his body. Lucifer had never forgotten his family; it was what he had needed to know all along. Neither of them says anything more and for the time being, it’s enough to make his heart full.

“It’s a lot to take in for everyone involved,” Diavolo beams, clapping a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “Barbatos, if you will?”

* * *

“Here you go. It’s a special Mandragora blend.”

Barbatos could pour sewage water and you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference. You stash away your D.D.D. before you are steered into your seat in the middle of the couch. The brothers are talking, mostly with Belphie, laughing and joking and crying along with him before he starts smiling again. Their emotions are still a little raw, but bit by bit, happiness settles like a comfortable hearth fire.

This is their small piece of heaven that Father cannot take away from them.

For Belphegor most of all, it is truly a waking dream that lifts his spirits on angel’s wings. Like Lucifer, he can begin anew with this strange hope from the unlikeliest of sources. He insists that he sits next to you, and amidst the good-natured complaints, they are indulgent to their youngest brother who has come back to them.

Diavolo laughs. Anyone with their ducks in a row would. Lucifer fusses. In this hurricane of jests and newfound merriment, the heart of it all does not beat. A teacup is placed into your hands, and it is by sheer instinct that it does not slip through your hands.

“Oh,” someone breathes, “Lilith would’ve loved this.”

By now, some of the more astute brothers are giving you looks of growing concern. Belphegor, who doesn’t notice the mute outstretched hand and the sunken gaze of the human child, snakes his arm around yours with a soft turn of the lips, already having forgotten the universal truth of dreams.

“?!”

“I… what?” Levi darts his head, grasping at the sudden cold hush. “Huh?”

They end.

You slowly extricate yourself from them, your other hand slowly turning the teacup right-side up. A few drops cling to the rim, and you hold it almost thoughtfully in your hand. Your fingers are squeezed around the handle so hard that the nail beds are white but you manage to stand up, smoothing the front of your shirt like you didn’t just upend the ceramic.

“Hey… what’s going on? Lucifer?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Oi—oi! Why aren’t you saying anything?”

You step over the puddle and totter a few steps before facing them. You haven’t spoken a word since your return and you would’ve preferred to continue so. Instead, you laugh. It croaks oddly, but it is unfeigned as your smile.

“The dead,” you speak barely above a whisper, “don’t speak.”

Just like that, you whisk them back to their old nightmare. The brothers have become so used to your helping hand that they overlooked the fact that a hand can also form a fist and pull them from the precipice of a new chapter. How can you talk? Belphegor had sentenced you to death.

Before you can thrust the thought it floats to the conscious mind: you wish you stayed dead.

“You’re kidding… right?” Mammon vacillates between affection and a renewed sense of loss. True to his sin, he pursues the possession of your certainty and takes a step towards you. A foolish, if somewhat touching, mistake.

“Don’t.” You raise a hand, a child warding off a blow. But it is the pact, not your hand, that holds him where he is.

“Enough of this,” Lucifer strides forward, maintaining his composure amidst a wavering ocean of agitated faces. He can already feel the heads turned to face him, looking to him with insecure eyes. “Sit down and tell us what’s wrong.”

Where would you begin?

Belphegor watches. Of his brothers, he is not restrained by a pact. He can run after you if he wants to, and pull you into his arms and rock you until everything that hurts inside falls away. And he does want to.

You swallow as coherence ebbs away. Everything is too overwhelming for you to form a good comeback, or even a good poker face. This house of demons cannot be where you can pull yourself together lest they continue to make a phantom out of you. The tension stifles your breath like a tendril.

Beelzebub flinches when you jump. When the vibration stops, you check your D.D.D. and some of the clouds clear from your gaze. “He’s here,” you breathe in weak relief.

“Who’s here?”

You begin walking backwards, slowly, steadiness bleeding out with each step. You’re not looking at Lucifer, who’s within grabbing distance and won’t reach out. Nor are you looking at Diavolo who has the sense to remain quiet along with his steward as each brother begins to entreat and reason to deaf ears. You are looking at Belphegor. You drop your smile.

“Where will you go?” Lucifer asks, raising his hand. He immediately regrets it, for you wince and squeeze your eyes shut. He, after all, has hurt you, too.

It takes every fibre of your being to speak without collapsing the words and overcome the quivering of your trachea.

“To those who have never hurt me.” You clear your throat. “Who _will_ never hurt me.” You blink, taking in the surroundings as a lost child would, with sweaty skin and acute breaths. “Will you stop me?”

He can. You are a human armed with nothing but an empty teacup, startled wide eyes driven by forces beyond despair and sense. Before you duck your head, he glimpses the resignation on it. He is watching someone being buried alive and there is no pride in the knowledge he carries the largest shovel.

He speaks softly, startling everyone except you. “Don’t stay out too long.”

“Wait, Lucifer!”

“No, we shouldn’t just let them—”

He jerks his head. “Go. Now.” Not waiting to see, he deliberately turns away and walks back, steeling a glare that prevents any from pursuing. A moment later, he hears retreating footsteps and he sits back down. Predictably, his brothers hound him, demanding answers. Where are they going? What’s happening? _Why?_

The pleasure is gone from this precious interlude that was meant to give them all a rare family evening. Belphegor is left to strain under a soured silence that slithers beneath his skin, refusing to leave. He does not deserve Beel’s arm around him, secure on his shoulders. But he leans closer, the way brothers do.

“Lucifer.” Only the tiniest furrow between Diavolo’s eyebrows betrays unease. “Are you sure it’s safe to let them go?”

Was keeping them here safer when they couldn’t stand to be in the same room? But Lucifer filters and refines his answer the way he controls everything else. “Diavolo, I apologize for saying this, but I think my brothers and I should call it a night; I will see you tomorrow. As for them… they will come back.”

Belphegor hopes that isn’t a false promise. He knows if it is, he’s the last demon who can raise objections.

“They’re not Lilith,” Satan speaks quietly. “That’s why.”

“But they’re her descendant,” Leviathan insists. “It’s…”

“It’s like having a piece of her back,” Beel finishes. “Our family’s back, together again.” A way to end the cycle of grief and secrets heavy enough to tear his brothers apart, with a mortal child. Lilith’s child, where a little part of her lives on. Belphegor had laughed in your face as he crushed the life given by his sister.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

“I know, Beel, but they’re not a resurrection of Lilith,” Satan speaks with the softness he reserves when approaching a wounded stray. Patient with a hint of pity. “A piece isn’t the whole. I don’t want you to be disappointed by misguided projection.”

Who is Satan to criticize his twin like that? Belphegor narrows his eyes. “I think _you’re_ the one who’s projecting too much.”

Satan wipes his mouth on a napkin, hiding the clench of his jaw. “I see. Belphie, do _you_ think they’re the reincarnation of Lilith? That would be the perfect ending, wouldn’t it?”

“Satan—”

“No, it’s an interesting point. If it’s true, all of us risked our sister’s life, multiple times, and Belphegor, who yelled at us for having forgotten her, killed her with his bare hands. You think they wouldn't want to run?”

“Stop—”

“But you’re right, Belphie. Maybe I _am_ projecting too much, considering what I am and how _they_ helped me not become what you’re forcing them through.”

Something wrenches him back and Satan bares his teeth, ready to snarl. A black overcoat flaps into view in front of him and it’s Asmodeus at his side, grasping his sleeve.

“They won’t like it if we fight like this, right?” He has begun to sob. “Both of them wouldn’t want to see this…”

Even at his angriest, Satan cannot deny that. With a deep breath, his horns shrink back into his skull and he becomes another impassive witness as Lucifer herds the twins to their room. For the first time in a long while, Satan is grateful that Lucifer’s in charge, unclouded in judgement enough to think for all seven of them.

“They’ll come home,” Asmodeus sniffles. “They left their mask in my room, from our slumber party. I’ll keep it until they come back for it.”

“Yes…” Satan answers. “Until they come back.” As though he’s sure that they would indeed come back.


End file.
